


Shadows

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Comma Abuse, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Semicolon abuse, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A private moment in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a rewrite of a very short drabble I originally wrote for a prompt a few years ago, but it's been changed almost entirely and very little of the original is still intact. In case it's not clear--this takes place prior to DA2, before Anders has left the Circle for the last time and joined the Wardens.

They do not speak—not _here_ , not _now_ , not like _this_ —not while seeking painfully brief respite within the closeness of their momentarily private corner where the silence seems so deep and endless and reverent—so much like a sanctuary—that its very nature seems to command the utter absence of sound and sight and speech.

They sense this, they know it well in the instant of sharp, vivid clarity that flickers through their minds before they hurriedly turn face to face—but the knowledge does not deter them.

Words are not what they have come together to exchange.

Touch is what they come for—what they want and need and yearn for—the open, earnest, raw exchange of _willing_ touch, touch without regret or fear or pain, offered and accepted in equal measure.

They come for the exchange of anxious, gentle kisses, eagerly traded in hopeful secret to ease the ache of loneliness.

They come for the exchange of close, fervent embraces, clinging tightly to one another in the silent, darkened stairwell, each reminding the other in turn with the press of one body to another that there is more to life and more to _living_ than fear and hatred and despair.

They come for the exchange of broken and shuddering sighs blanketed beneath layers of thick, heavy breaths there in the dim, remote corner of the tower, half-cloaked in shadows at the deepest hour of night when everyone and everything around them is as still and as soundless as they ever will be.

Anders steps in close, leans in closer; Karl smiles expectantly, calmly, his expression full of clear certainty and forethought, still shaking lightly as though the bleeding of their shared warmth into the scant, narrow space between them is not at all familiar, as though the teasing, tickling, _inviting_ sensation of Anders’ breath against the base of his throat is completely new, neither knowing why nor caring that this feeling has not changed, that the warmth of it has not faded no matter how many times they do this here, in this way, in this place, melting completely into one another in their sanctuary of shadows.

Anders presses Karl back against the wall; Karl folds without resistance.

Lips touch first, with kisses pliant and fond and familiar between pleasantly warm, expectant breaths. Small, sharp draughts of air drawn in with a gasp and reluctantly released with a sigh brush hotly against already heated flesh, and dissipate coolly amidst the persistently cool shadows.

Tongues join somewhere in the middle, adding gentle depth to each kiss already nearly full to bursting with soft, easy tenderness, both of them struggling to hold back and hold fast against a wave of painfully unspoken words they both know remain far better left unsaid; both grasping in futility for purchase against another wave of achingly desperate, unasked questions, unanswered and unspent and reduced to little more than a chaotic mass of raw, fragile anguish held prudently at bay but _only just;_ praying to remain afloat atop one final, relentless wave laden with gentle words and gentle feelings brought dangerously close to the surface only to be so very _ungently_ crushed beneath the overwhelming weight of reality, buried so deeply beneath pressure and pain and longing that even the most minute chance of escape seems impossible.

Palms touch last, pressing together flat and firm; fingers clasping together tightly, eagerly, _affectionately_ —resolve sinking deeply beyond any lingering thoughts of propriety or sense or reason.

Neither darkness nor light alone holds sway over them, mixing and blending together in soft, subtle shades of grey to mingle between each stolen moment in the shadows; each moment of heat, of release, of _freedom_ ; each moment where even perfect sight is meaningless and the lightest touch of a lover’s hand matters more than the sweetest spoken words ever will.


End file.
